


In Motion

by greyskygirl



Category: Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting, but from a distance, long-distance caretaking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 13:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9443654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greyskygirl/pseuds/greyskygirl
Summary: One more take is one too many when you're dangling from wires; or, Sebastian Stan: a motion sickness story.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I knew I was going to write this eventually the minute I saw [this post](http://missjanedoeeyes.tumblr.com/post/150597904650/dancingloki-softcap-sebastian-stan-aka). (I can't currently find my own reblog of it, because using Tumblr in a way that lets me find things later without deep-diving into my thousands of liked posts is not something I've mastered, but anyway.)
> 
> Probably this isn't how it really happened, but ...
> 
> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Seb knew from the moment they put him in those wires that it was going to go badly. Those giant swings at amusement parks, the godforsaken Tilt-a-Whirl everyone swore he’d love as a kid at his first American fair, anything that spins in a way people are not meant to go: it all comes with an invisible warning sign meant for him. He’s not afraid; he just knows better. Or the better part of valor is discretion. However you want to put it: he’s not meant to swing around like an ill-equipped monkey. In space.

Plus, he’s got a history with this stuff. (Hooray for a memory from his Covenant days.) That was a bruised rib, though -- a legitimate injury, caused by stuntwork more complicated than anything he’s trying to do here. What’s he going to do now, ask for a break because his stomach’s rolling like there’s an alien inside it? Wrong movie. He’s filming The Martian, where the worst thing that happens to his character is watching bad things happen to someone else’s character. 

At least that’s how the script goes.

The fact that his character’s a doctor is doing nothing for the swirling nausea. But oh, that kind of character bleed sounds fantastic right about now. Not that being a doctor comes with autoimmunity from motion sickness, but a guy who’s about to hurl his breakfast burrito all over the set can dream.

He's a professional. He can do this. 

Except the setup's not quite right at first, so he dangles and bobs and chokes back the saliva in his mouth while they make leisurely adjustments, discuss the adjustments at a still-far-too-leisurely pace and then have him try to move. He doesn’t want to move. 

But he’s a professional, and he can do this. They need another take, then another, and he’s lost track of how long he’s been suspended in misery. The only acting he’s doing at this point is convincing himself he can finish the scene and scramble off set before the inevitable happens.

And it’s going to happen. They could let him down now, and it’d still be a foregone conclusion. 

"Seb, you're a star, just 10 more minutes," Ridley calls, his eyes on the monitors, where apparently Seb’s discomfort is somehow dulled by the bright lights. 

Finally he can't do 10 more seconds. He’s about to signal for a break when the most beautiful syllable in the world breaks through his queasy haze. 

“Cut!”

He's still trying to smile as they're unhooking him, trying to make sure nobody worries, because someone’s asking if he’s all right and there are murmurs of concern, and he’s trying to nod but he can’t answer, because if he opens his mouth it’s not going to be reassurance that spills out.

Then the wires are off. He’s clear. He’s running, not even pretending to be okay, not acknowledging anyone he stumbles past. And every step is agony, but just a few more. God, WHERE is the bathroom, he’s not going to make it …

Seb skids around a corner and sees it. The holy land. The unicorn. The one lone single-stall bathroom in this part of the studio. He barrels through the door and flails a frantic hand out to slam the door shut behind him, and then he hits his knees, hard enough to bruise even through the padded knees of his costume..

It’s almost a relief to start retching, even though he barely makes the bowl in his desperation. Tears flood his eyes as he gags, giving in to the dizzy, awful feeling he’s been fighting for the past hour.

It goes on for minutes, and he shudders through every second, body convulsing as he heaves. He drags the back of his hand across his mouth during a reprieve and realizes he’s got to go back out there. No more wire work today, but he’s got more scenes. People waiting on him, counting on him.

He curls his fingers around the edge of the sink and tries to pull himself up.

Too soon.

The movement triggers another wave of nausea, and he bends back over the bowl to choke up some more bile, actively regretting the choice of chorizo that morning. The bulky costume is making the experience even worse, and Seb wonders if he’s managed to not leave any evidence on the snowy fabric. 

He exhales and rocks back onto his heels, trying to gauge his ability to stand. Even with a white-knuckled grip on the sink, the dizziness is unabated, and he grimaces at his chalky pallor in the tiny mirror, looking away quickly. He’s gonna owe the makeup artist a favor. Maybe the costume department, too.

He splashes some water onto his face, which does nothing to make him actually feel better. He cups his hands under the faucet and scoops some water into his mouth, swishing and spitting, and this, too, is disappointing as a restorative tactic. He just feels shaky and sick and sluggish, but the bed waiting in his trailer is at least a few hours’ work away.

It’s then he remembers what scene he’s shooting next, and he almost pukes again at the thought. Matt introducing everyone, while he’s in the kitchen. Eating eggs. With a smile on his face.

He likes eggs, but he’s an omelet guy on a good day. And on this decidedly ungood day, scrambled eggs are running a distant last on the list of things-he-wants-to-eat. The list is nonexistent. Plus, Aksel’s going to be standing a foot away. With sausage.

Seb shudders and dry heaves over the sink, trying to will his stomach calm. Okay, so his day’s not going to get better. Time to get on with it.

He rolls his shoulders and wipes his mouth again, then opens the door. One of the crew -- Rick, he thinks -- is leaning against the opposite wall, staring at the ceiling. He pushes himself upright when Sebastian appears and takes a step forward.

“Hey, man,” he says quietly, and Seb tries to smile. 

“Sorry about that--” he starts as Rick reaches up and … unhooks the GoPro he’s still wearing. Was wearing, through all of-- Jesus. _Fuck._

He blanches, and Rick nods, passing the camera back and forth in his hands, not meeting Seb’s eyes. “So, Ridley said you should go … uh. Rest. Clean up. Whatever you need. We’ll come get you in half an hour or so, see how you are.”

Sebastian considers knocking the camera out of Rick’s hands -- no way that footage isn’t going to make it online somehow -- but with his luck, the recording would still survive. That, or he’d have to reshoot the whole scene.

Better just to slink away and go curl up. He tries, again, to smile, but the aftertaste in his mouth just makes it impossible to fake. A return nod is all he can credibly manage, and then he’s hurrying -- as gingerly as possible, given how unsteady he still feels -- to his trailer and the bliss of being horizontal.

He wants Chris. That’s his first thought as he sits heavily on the mattress and begins to deal with divesting himself of his costume. He checks the clock quickly and calculates the time in Boston. Chris is six hours behind him, probably not up yet, since he’s taking the opportunity to relax a bit, having just finished filming the latest Avengers movie.

“You love space,” he reminds himself aloud as he tugs his puffy white suit off, but he groans in relief when he’s down to his sweat-dampened tee and sweats. Everything feels a little gross right now, but it’s better. He takes a deep breath and grabs his phone, swinging his legs up onto the bed.

“You up?” he taps out before letting his head fall back onto the pillow. Half an hour.

Half a minute later, his phone’s chiming with an incoming FaceTime call. The screen resolves into Chris’s familiar face, and the sight of that warm, sleepy smile directed at him makes Seb feel infinitesimally better, at the same time he feels every inch of the four-thousand-plus miles they’re apart. 

“It’s early, sorry,” he apologizes, and Chris quirks an eyebrow at him and squints at the clock on his nightstand.

“Six. Not so bad. I miss you, too.”

Seb sighs, and then can’t fight back a moan, because his stomach aches from its violent, unscheduled workout. Don thinks his ab days are tough? Ha.

“Hey,” Chris says, frowning. “Seb. You okay?”

“The perks of wire work for the motion-sick prone. Also, there’s now a video of me puking my guts out. You can probably watch it somewhere already.”

This time he manages a smile, but Chris is sitting up in bed, his features going sharp with concern even as he’s still rubbing sleep from his eyes. 

“You got sick? Jesus. Seb …”

Seb waves a hand weakly. “It’s all good. Made it through the scene. Now I just have to figure out how to choke down some eggs in …” he glances to the side. “Like 26 minutes.”

“What?” Chris’s voice is getting louder with every word out of his mouth. “No, you’re done. If you’re sick, they can shoot around you. They know, right?”

Seb scoffs. “Remember the part about the video? I wasn’t kidding. Forgot about my GoPro. So, yeah, safe to say: everyone on set knows.”

Chris sighs and scrubs a hand through his messy hair. He’s back to a full beard, and Seb thinks getting up close and personal with that delicious scruff would definitely restore him to full health.

“Seb, still. You gotta take care of yourself. I’m not there.”

“Wish you were,” Seb murmurs, hand idly rubbing his aching belly. 

Chris groans. “S’not fair. I would be. I can be.” He looks fully alert now, and Seb can see the idea taking shape. Chris is a great actor, but his poker face needs some work. “Bet I can get a flight to Hungary today.”

“Don’t say hungry. Ugh.”

“Seriously, though, Seb -- I can come. Make sure you’re okay.”

This guy. Heart twice as big as his biceps. And Seb knows he means it. A half-nod, a whispered acceptance and Chris’ll be booking his ticket to Budapest. It’s a really nice thought.

Now his smile’s real and full, and they share grins through the screen, stupid in love as they are.

“I’m okay,” he promises. “And I don’t think you can really go incognito here, but we only have a few more weeks of principal, and then you’re meeting me in New York, right?”

“Try to stop me.” 

“If you want to pull some strings, though --” Seb offers, and he can practically see Chris’s ears perk up. “Ask Ridley Scott if I can eat some Jell-O instead of eggs. Eggs, Chris. I have to go eat eggs.”

Chris’s mouth twitches, and he leans forward earnestly, like he’s going to say something sympathetic, something supportive. And then it happens.

That gloriously goofy laugh bubbles out of Chris, and Seb waits for a second as it builds, and yep -- there goes his right hand to slap his left pec. On anyone else, it’d be obnoxious, but it’s just so honest coming from Chris that it’s charming even though Seb’s currently the gentle target of this boisterous outburst.

“I hate you,” he says firmly, and Chris stops chuckling long enough to smile at him, all seriousness now.

“Yeah. Hate you, too, Sebby. So much.”

\--

He repeats those words to Chris four weeks later, when Chris arrives at his apartment with a alarmingly large Tupperware container filled with Jell-O.

Chris laughs and pulls him close. “Told you I’d take care of you."

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [Tumblr](http://whowaswillbe.tumblr.com). You'll find me screaming about Seb, his roles and his life-ruining thickness. It's a good time.


End file.
